


By Any Other Name

by Medicalnonsense



Category: Daft Punk
Genre: Gambling, Gen, Going to be very kinky later, Kinks will be labeled as they happen, Label AU, M/M, Prostitution, Rating always subject to change, Supernaturalish, very ish
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-20 03:52:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1495570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Medicalnonsense/pseuds/Medicalnonsense
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roulé has been on the run for a long time, but finally he's able to settle down for a "modest" life in Las Vegas, always testing his luck--which he never runs out of--on and off the strip for his income.  Over the years he never tried too hard to make friends but as he finds not every day is as terrifying as it used to be, he also finds he's susceptible to human needs he's long ignored.  See:  Companionship.<br/>As he entangles himself in a sexcapade-filled relationship with a casino-trawling man everyone knows by the name of Crydamoure, he realizes that as his past catches up with him he may be more invested in the other man than he would like to admit.  His luck finally running out, he has two choices, run again and lose Crydamoure or own up to the sins of his past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ventura

         “Who’s this bigshot?” a woman whispered to her husband as he was elbows deep in a blackjack round.  he let out a breath and flicked his eyes across the table.  The man in question could not have even been thirty; his hair was dark and curly, above a pair of serious eyes comically offset by his peculiar slack-jawed mouth.  
         “Oh.” The husband clicked his tongue in recognition.  From the beanpole physique and gratuitous winnings at his side, the man could only be who he had introduced himself as.  At first, the husband hadn’t believed it, stories said he was an older man, greying at the temples, serious facial hair…  All the same, the signs still pointed to him only being one man, “He’s a famous high-roller from Monaco.  A real shark at just about everything; especially known for his luck in roulette.” he explained as he realized he could kiss all his bets goodbye as long as he was around.  
         “Really?” the woman questioned.  
         “Yes, no one knows his real name, but he goes by _Roulé_.”  
         “French, hm?” she observed, “Isn’t that whore from France too?” she dug further as her husband continued with his hand.  
         “Cry?  Now that you mention it…  I’m surprised that, with winnings like that, he hasn’t shown up yet.”  
         The woman scoffed, “I’d rather leave before he gets here.”  
         “Same.”  
         “He freaks me out.”  
         “Say no more, sweetheart, I’m out once this round is over.”

  
         Roulé was accustomed to receiving all kinds of looks, from adoring to loathing; he would say that by how the couple across the table were observing him and subsequently looking disgusted, that they were in the latter category.  The only man with his equally-aged, bottle-blonde lovely was sweating profusely as his wife looked about.  Perhaps she was merely trying to locate a friend in the ruckus of the casino, so he didn’t pay her anymore mind and concentrated on his game.  It never failed to make him smirk when his reputation preceded him overseas.  
         By the end of the round, he did notice something strange:  rather than all eyes being on him--an uncomfortable, yet unavoidable evil of being the one to so often beat the house--all of the patrons at the table were giving their disconcerted stares over his shoulder.  He dared not take interest, lest he give away his own mounting discomfiture, but…  A man did not come so far as him and not…  You know the saying.  
         Stealing a glance over his shoulder, he let out a relieved sigh to see no one he recognized behind him.  Perhaps he had nothing to worry about after all.  He returned his attentions to the table and found that a the couple across from him had fled the scene.  
         He smirked to himself, perhaps they were tired of losing?  Flicking his eyes up to the dealer as if to inquire when the start of a new round was, he became curious again.  The other patrons at the table were now minding their business, the dealer had his eyes sharply narrowed at whatever the point of interest over Roulé’s shoulder was.  
         “Hey,” Roulé caught the dealer’s attention, “what’s everyone staring at?”  He just couldn’t take not knowing.  
         “You have an…   _Admirer_ , sir.”  
         He gave a self-assured “heh” in response to this news.  “I’m not surprised.” Roulé rested his chin in the crook of his thumb and forefingers, giving the dealer a dazzling smile.  
         The older man shrugged, “Many who catch his eye aren’t overly fond of him.”  
         “Him?” Roulé blinked, not expecting a male “admirer”, perhaps he was merely misinterpreting the English definition of the word.  “This man wants to share in my luck, you mean?”  
         The dealer made a snide face, “You’re foreign, aren’t you?”  
         “That fact has little standing here.” he firmly reminded, a dangerous light flashing through his young eyes.  
         “I mean that…  He’s standing behind you, see for yourself.”  The dealer motioned, “Long hair, pink shirt, white tie.”  
         Doing as suggested, Roulé glanced over his shoulder.  The person in question was not directly behind him, but rather, a table or two back from him; he sat at the bar, his legs crossed, elegant fingers daintily holding a lowball of dark liquid before him.  His lips left the red straw in the glass and curled in a devious smile.  The locks that framed his face and brushed his shoulders appeared to curl in every direction as a flush came to his cheeks.  
         Roulé, feeling uncomfortable beneath such a blatantly objectifying gaze, turned back to the dealer.  The man hummed at him as if to say “see what I mean?”.  
         “Who is he?” He enquired, raising an eyebrow, “He seems to have a reputation.”  
         “I’ve never heard of a real name,” the dealer shrugged, “But most in the surrounding casinos know him as Crydamoure.”  
         “Is he a prostitute?” Roulé still felt his eyes boring into his back.  
         “Depends upon who you talk to.” he folded his arms thoughtfully, “Some say he does not charge, other say he carries a heavy fee for his company.  Still others say he charges close to nothing after all is said and done.  I cannot tell you which is true, his eyes have, thankfully, never fallen on me.  Are you up for another round, sir?” he then followed up.  
         “No, got to move along.” Roulé explained as he gathered his chips into his bag.  Feeling curious, he looked back to the bar again, but found the stool empty.  He looked about for a few seconds--it wouldn’t be a terrible loss if he didn’t find the tight pants-wearing man--before shrugging and going back about his business.  Actually, he did have another question, “Why do people--” Roulé began as he felt a hard hand on his shoulder.   _Shit_. as he felt the hand try to lift him by the coat of his suit, he stood, kicking his chair back at the other person.  Luckily, the hand on his coat slipped on the smooth fabric, allowing him an out.  
         “You shit!” One of the men, there had to be at least two, there never were less than that, yelled after him in French.  
         Roulé didn’t pay him mind, focusing on weaving in and out of other patrons as well as casino-workers.  He clutched his bag of chips to his hip, call his priorities mixed-up, but _these_ , these were important to him.  
        As was so common for him, his luck held out as he dodged past two others coming after him.  He actually broke a sweat, he realized with a small, condescending chuckle at the expense of his less fortunate pursuers.  There was just no chance that they’d ever catch him.  However, as he left discretely out the back door to an alleyway, he knew he couldn’t sit around and gloat.  Not unless he wanted to lose a hell of a lot more than just his money.  
         He quickly made himself scarce from the scene; noting to come back soon to cash out his earnings.  It just wouldn’t be in the next few days…  He probably needed to not go out into public at all for awhile and that suited him just fine.  
         Opening up his suitcoat as he walked down the busy Vegas strip, he took out a cigarello from an extricated, silver case; he rarely carried his favorites--cigars--with him in public.  No, such expensive and wonderful beauties were better-served as in-home pleasures.  Roulé let out a breath of smoke as he walked the ten blocks to his building.  An ace gambler he might have been (and the owner of several luxury cars as well) but inside he still preferred to be less conspicuous and that was exactly what walking was.  Flash a few noteworthy cars with some suspicious thugs in the area and you were basically begging to be pegged by them.

  
         Greeted by the doorman as he entered, he slipped him the usual Benjamin for his silence to anyone that came looking for him.  Plus, he found the doorman to be a great guy and there weren’t enough of those that made a decent wage anymore.  Himself for example, he only started making the big bucks once he dropped the goody-goody act…  In fact…  He moved on to other ideas.  he had no reason to be thinking of such things.  Morality is relative anyway, right?  Right.  
         Roulé had paid a great deal for his penthouse condo.  With the luxurious bathroom, walk-in closets and even a pantry specifically for his cigars, he was more than willing to pay the full-price for it upfront.  He flipped the lights on as he finished his cigarello, trying to keep himself from noting the quiet emptiness.  Stubbing it out in an ashtray by the door, he forced himself to think of other things.  
          _What do you want to eat?  Do you want a call-girl?  Do you want to try to call…?_  Damn he was bad at this whole autonomous life thing, he had to admit to his true self for a second.  he had already started a new life.  His name was Roulé; he had no family; he had /no loved-ones; no one could be hurt by him; no one could be used to hurt him; he was solitary; an aloof enigma; he was cold-hearted; his only joy in life was money; he was a man only defined by a scotch-laden snifter, a cuban cigar and the luck of the draw.  
         With a snort, he ran his hands through his hair and wandering over to his record-player.  He lifted an old LP from a well-worn box and slid it from its sleeve.  he allowed a smile, a real one; Roulé didn’t like this kind of shit, Roulé thought the only decent music there was came from 1930 and before…  But…  Yeah…  Outkast was where it was at.  Beginning to bob his head up and down as the tunes started, his smile grew.  Yeah, he could never deny himself this guilty pleasure.  He plopped down on his black, leather couch before kicking up his feet onto a cherry coffee table.  he reached over to a large, silver case and opened it, plucking a large cigar from its protective bastion.  With a wooden match, he lit it and breathed the thick, viscous smoke into the air before him in lazy swirls.  
         Tonight wasn’t as lonely as he thought; if he could allow himself to _suffer_ just a bit longer through the useless drivel that today’s youth listened to, he could put on some classic Dr. Dre…  Maybe DJ Slugo would make an appearance too, though it _pained_ him to do it…  
         No, tonight wouldn’t be bad at all.

*****

         Three days passed.  
         Roulé was somewhat grateful for the reprieve.  Only somewhat.  He didn’t really like having no purpose from day-to-day.  he hadn’t even left to go to the bank, which frustrated him the most.  At least he could check his investments and so forth from the computer.  At any rate, he was happy he could finally leave his home again.  Hopefully those thugs would think he’d skipped town to hit up some small-time casinos on his way to Reno or perhaps La.  Speaking of which, he could stand some time in either of those cities.  Reno sounded better than LA, however.  If he was lucky--which he always was--the thugs would even skip the US all together, thinking he fled to Singapore or back to his country of origin once no traces of him turned up on the West Coast.  
         He huffed at himself, _Even you’re not that lucky._  It was one thing to be a master as hiding and another to get cocky and sloppy.   _Tread lightly.  Go small.  Then go big._

  
         His night began much the way it always did.  He bought a scotch on the rocks and scoped out the joint of the night.  He was a great craps-shooter, a real shark at all card games and a notorious high-roller in roulette--see what he did there?--nothing was out of bounds for him.  Of course, if he lived under the suspicion that his tailers were still in town, he needed to steer clear of his tried and true roulette tables.  
          _What do I do the least?_  He asked himself.   _Poker._  Was the dismal outcome of that question.  He hated poker.  Not because he was shit at it, but because it was something of an easy game for him.  He wasn’t looking for major payouts that evening, though.  He could deal with that; he was merely looking for entertainment.  
         With a flat expression, he tore through his rounds of poker with ease.  he was careful not to mention his name at the tables, however.  he had slipped-up at his prior location and had ended up garnering attention.  The unwelcome kind, of course.  All the same, his success at poker that night was grating on the nerves of staff and patrons alike.  Moreover, he was not enjoying the various people who were hanging off and around him.  
          _Yuppy trash._ he internally jeered.  A proposition for sex put him in a particularly bad mood and after his third hour, he left.  
         His satchel laden with his winnings, he tried to decide whether or not he wanted to go somewhere else that night or just go home.  Going home meant being his usual living-contradiction self, though…  
         “Are you Irish?” someone asked from his peripheral, giving him a welcome distraction from his thoughts.  With a conceited snort and a smirk, he answered “No.”  
         “Could’ve fooled me with that exit you made.” The voice, very deep--a man’s--came from the adjacent alley.  Roulé turned his head, stopping his trek through the buildings to view this new pursuer.  He was short--everyone was comparatively--long hair covered half of a delicately-structured face that sat atop a pair of broad shoulders.  A charming variation of a self-righteous scowl seemed permanently set into his face; a cigarette burned between his hard, long fingers, the lines of which lead Roulé’s eyes to the gold, triangular cufflinks that glimmered in the sleeves of his hot-pink button-up.  The thing that most caught Roulé’s attention, however, was as the wind blew, it carried with it the distinct scent of sex.  Upon further inspection of his face, Roulé saw his hair curling in upon itself, slowly, by the sheen of sweat on his forehead, it was likely the moisture pervaded it and caused this reaction.  At first, he felt himself repulsed but it swiftly gave way to intrigue…  The purple tie, well-tailored pants and gorgeously-pressed shit belied his disheveled hair and air of raw lust…  He had class.  
         “I know you.”  Roulé told him.  
         “Well-met.”  The whore giggled sardonically, “I know _you_.”  
         “Perhaps I should make another Irish exit, then.”  Roulé started on his way again, but was surprised to see the man following him.  “Are you a stalker now?”  
         “No, but you’re interesting.  All that money and wanting none of the glory for your talents.”  he clicked his tongue, “You don’t really strike me as the humble type.”  
         “So, you were watching me?”  Roulé sent his eyes skyward, trying to decide the quickest way to dispatch the other man.  
         “No, I was on my way out when I saw you.  We’re merely heading towards the same place.” he flicked his cigarette butt away.  
         “Hm, just where is that?” Roulé suddenly felt weight on his arm closest the man and a hot breath against him.  
         “Your bed.” the shorter man sighed.  
         Roulé clicked his tongue, “Surely you’re joking.” he shrugged off the moving incarnation of sex dismissively.  
         “Not at all.” Roulé’s interlocutor gave a sly smirk.  “Or, if you like jokes, sure.  A good joke always leads to a good poke with me.”  
         “I don’t have time for childishness.” he grunted irritably.  
         “Good, I’m X-rated as it is.”  
         “Smut is so disgusting.”  
         “R more your taste?”  
         Roulé looked him up and down, “Are you even old-enough for that?”  
         “Oh, so PG-13 is more your style.”  he giggled, “I can call you Daddy if you like.”  
         Roulé stopped in his tracks and turned to face him, “I’m no pedophile, young man.”  
         The other man crossed his arms over his chest, “Then you wouldn’t be.” he shrugged, his eyes slipping closed as if to think.  “No one has called me ‘young man’ in at least ten years.”  
         “I don’t have time for your foolishness tonight.” Roulé warned him off and continued walking.  
         “Just tonight?”  
         Stopping again, Roulé did a bit of honest thinking; he _was_ only a whore after all.  “Just tonight.” he responded.  
          “Hm…  So I’m _not_ wasting my time?”  
          Roulé chuckled, “That’s up for you to decide.” he resumed motion towards home.  
          “Fortunately for you, I’m willing to do a bit of investigating.”  
          “I’m always fortunate.” Roulé smirked to himself, turning the corner and leaving--what was his name?--Crydamoure?--him to his own devices.

 

 


	2. Rollin' and Scratchin'

Rollin’ and Scratchin’

          Over subsequent days, Roulé sought forms of entertainment that kept him out of the public eye.  A cigar hung from his lips over a mug of coffee, a newspaper in his hands.  He had long been up, an old habit of his that had yet to die--though it had saved his life on many an occasion--since three that morning.  As usual he had began with a morning jog through the city before settling for a bit of casual weight training in his home.  All the same, he found himself perusing the paper over a mug of espresso.  
          He considered betting on horse races, but the only ones that caught his eye had conspicuous payouts.  If there was anything that he had learned over the years, it was that the thugs--and their boss--kept a close eye on anything that paid a significant amount of money.  With a grunting sigh, he realized he would have to scratch all of them if he entered anyway.  So, it was with a defeated huff that he threw the paper down and ground his cigar out to finish later.  At least he had his coffee.  It would never let him down.  
         Taking a sip, he roved his eyes about his kitchen--marble floors, granite countertops, chrome appliances he didn’t even know the purpose of half of.  France might have been known for the finest culinary establishments and its chefs, but Roulé wasn’t a good example of that.  While he had refined tastes in smoke and drink, his eating habits--cooking habits, rather--left much to be desired.  At least he could work the espresso machine…  
         He took another sip of his delicious, dark life-fluid and stood.  Since rolling with the punches rarely left him any time to socialize, he had no friends.  Just as well, he didn’t need them anyway, they were somewhat a waste of time.  A waste of money too.  
          _What good_ are _they?_  He asked himself pointedly.  
         In his mad dash from Monaco to Atlantic city way back when and through small casinos on the way to Las Vegas, his enemies remained the same--many--and his allies were much similar--none.  His abode in Vegas, that he had bought years ago on a whim and had been, hereto, used as storage until about three months ago when he took up residence in it.  It was the longest he had stayed in one place in years.  This meant that long, idle days were just something he had to deal with.  There was no thrill of, suddenly, his home being raided or him being grabbed and ransacked by a corner convenience store; he didn’t have to spend time plotting his best escape methods--he’d done that his very first day after all and memorized it--or where he would go next.  In recent years, the time to manage his finances had been something of a luxury, now he found it was all the entertainment he had…  He needed friends as much as he despised the idea of them.  
          _Can I even do that?_  He questioned, moving into his lounge room.  He eyed the box that held his records from a past time.  The cardboard was dull with age, the tape had been brittle and scrawled across it in sloppy, child-like print was a name he hadn’t heard used in an extremely long time.  The name was foreign to his lips, the sound dusty in his ears.  On top of the box sat the meager few things he had chosen to remove from it.  Among them, the records he had listened to nights prior.  He snorted to himself, _Such childish fancies._  
         Walking over to the box of vinyl, he thought, _It’s junk, get rid of it._  but caused a severe wave of anxiety as he picked it up and looked to the garbage.   _These are irreplaceable…_  His frown morphed from condescension and haughty superiority to something more human.  Something almost like sad nostalgia as the lines of a face, far too old for its real age, softened.   _They have no place in your life anymore._  He reminded   _They’re always there though._  Still conflicted, his sadness deepened, _People never can be._  Clutching the box of records, he let out a breath and set them back down on the turntable’s stand.   _My only friends._  He ran his hand along the bent edges of the decrepit box before sighing and leaving the room.

*****

         When given the choice of either contemplating his own fallible humanity or going out and doing something thrilling, yet stupid, it was obvious which route he picked.  He needed something, anything to make him feel like himself again.  Money, yes, he needed to win something more, he would be happy then.  It always made him happy.  Nothing made him happier than more money.  Nothing was better than financial security.  Nothing.  
         Pulling on a suit and spraying his cologne, he smirked charmingly to himself in the mirror.  Yes, this was who he was.  A billionaire; a dapper gentleman with more than an ace or two up his sleeve; women all wanted him and men wanted to be him.  He was…  Yes, he was perfect.

  
         The lights, the liquor, the thrill of a bet returned two fold and the elite eating out of the palm of his young hand.  Roulé went for another round of roulette, so far the house was hating him.  So far, he was loving every second of it.  As long as he kept rolling and the chips stayed flowing, he was happy.  
         “Hi there, stranger.”  He felt whispered into his ear with a great, moist heat.  The smell of lust consumed him and he smirked.  
         “We must stop meeting.” he jibed as if he had had more than one conversation with this person.  
         “I beg to differ.”  There wasn’t a trace of alcohol on the man’s breath or a single wrinkle in his hot-pink dress-shirt--his black, silk tie wonderfully broke up the plain of loud color and Roulé could not help but be infatuated with his fashion sense.  
         “Are you wearing heels?” Roulé asked as he placed more bets, hiding his smirk once he realized all other competitors around the table inched away from him in Crydamoure’s presence.  With a flit of blue eyes over into the crowd, their eyes all averted, they beginning to whisper amongst themselves.  Roulé saw sly knowing in those little jewels before they closed and the man they belonged to tossed his hair.  
         “They’re Italian.”  Crydamoure answered as if that should’ve been evidence enough.  He leaned against the table, crossing his elegant legs; it must’ve never even occurred to him that most people would abhor the idea of white boots with black pants.  Then again, the man is unconventional as he once again wore women’s dress pants, the kind that hugged his shapely ass and thighs only to release their firm hold past the knee.  “I need them to even _think_ of being on your level.”  He sniggered at his own complement.  
         Roulé gave him a sidelong inspection, his smirk growing wider once witnessing Crydamoure’s devious little simper.  Again, Roulé thought he saw the ends of his wavy, brown hair curl inward as a flush came to his round cheeks and just the same as before, he dismissed the idea as an optical illusion.  He closed his eyes to chuckle, inhaling the intoxicating scent of sex and longing from this stranger.  It was enough to make his body shiver, but his reveries were quickly broken by the sound of the ball skipping over the roulette wheel.  
         His ball, yet again, fell favorably and he cheered happily as Crydamoure observed with a good deal of interest.  The rest of the crowd, while equally impressed as the experienced casino-trawler, Roulé saw the discomfort on their faces rather than appreciation.  It’s not a reaction he’s altogether used to…  He doesn’t live for validation from other people, however and so he chose to ignore it.  
         “Are you sticking around because you want to know my secrets?” Roulé questioned as Crydamoure continued to observe him place more bets and win yet again.  The discomfort on the audience and house-members’ faces turned to irritation and anger during the last roll.  Soon it would be time for him to skip the table, he didn’t need any accusations of cheating, as damn near impossible to do with this game as it was.  
         “Not much of a gambler myself.”  Crydamoure informed him, plucking a lowball of what appeared to be a whiskey on the rocks off the tray of a passing woman who didn’t so much as cast him a glance for it.  “Not lucky or experienced enough for it.” He sipped the glass, mimicking his interlocutor with a sidelong look.  “I just want you, baby.”  
         “A romantic, huh?”  
         “You could use that word.” he continued to sip through the tiny straw.  
         “There’s a lot more I could."   
         “Likewise.”  
         “How would they go?”  
         Crydamoure giggled, “How would you like them to go?”  
         “Screaming my name.”  
         “That can be arranged."  
         “Sir,” the roulette hand cut in between their dialog, much to Roulé’s frustration.  
         “What?” he nearly snarled.  
         “Are you in for another round?” the woman raised her eyebrow at him, Roulé flitting his eyes down to the heavy stack of chips he had already accumulated this time.  
         “No, I believe I am sound.” he answered, tossing them into his satchel and amazed at how little Crydamoure seemed to care about the amount he had garnered.  More than anything, he just looked annoyed that he had been interrupted as well.  He had learned in the past though that looks are very deceiving…   _That’s how you made your nut in the beginning._  His satchel, as usual, was not going to leave his sight that evening.  
         He stepped away from the table, not the least bit surprised when Crydamoure tailed after him, “Where to?”  Casually, the nymph of a man looked down to a bystander they passed, gave him a polite grin and passed off his empty lowball with a quiet imitation of a kiss at him.  The man, his wife sitting next to him, grinned happily at him and accepted the glass before waving to him as if in a dreamy daze.  
         Shrugging off the weirdness, Roulé suggested “I was thinking poker.”  
         “Really?  And not _other places_?”  The shorter man emphasized in a breathy voice not unlike a moan.  He grinned up at Roulé as the dour gentleman turned his head to look down at him, his arms had encircled one of his and he seemed almost offended that he would do such a thing.  Resisting being shrugged off this time, Crydamoure's expression morphed into bemusement as Roulé looked away from him and kept walking, “What’s your name?” he asked, the question unfamiliar to his mouth.  
         “Roulé.” The tall man solemnly supplied, letting Crydamoure hang off him as they traversed the casino together.  His eyes fell on the office to cash out his winnings, diverting his course towards it and Crydamoure not missing a step.  “And yours?  Crydamoure, correct?”  
         The shorter man let out a breathy groan, “These hopeless people just can’t pronounce it correctly.”  
         “Oh?”  Roulé laid out the chip equivalent to 40,000USD on the counter.  It was a small portion of what he kept contained within the satchel, but he had long learned that cashing out sums of over 100,000 generally drew unwanted attention.  
         “My name is _Cri d’Amour_.”  
         “You’re French.” Roulé stated, he would’ve smiled if his face was more used to the motion and if Crydamoure--Cri d’Amour--was anything more than just a prostitute to him.  
         “As are you _Roulé_.”  
         “ _Oui_.”  
         “ _Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir_?”  Crydamoure asked next, garnering eye-contact from Roulé once more before Roulé’s face crinkled with a snort of humor, the shorter man’s melodious trilling joining in.  
         “I’m going to forget you said that.”  
         “Please do.”  Crydamoure continued to giggle, “But I cannot tell you how often it’s said to me.”  
          Roulé rolled his eyes towards the heavens, “I would be lying if I ever said no one has said it to me before.”  
         “Well, obviously, because I just did.”  
         “You know what I meant.” Roulé sighed, furrowing his brow ever-so-slightly.  He moved to attempt to shrug him off again, finding Crydamoure's grip frustratingly immovable.  
         "You have such gorgeous eyes..." The prostitute commented, sending Roulé into a series of half-offended-half-flattered sputters.  Crydamoure giggled, his cheeks flushing brightly, whilst the other worked to articulate himself.  
         "Get off me." Roulé grunted, glaring down into the rapt, glass-blue eyes observing him.  They crinkled at their corners as Crydamoure released his hold and stepped away.  He did find himself following the twinkling orbs with his gaze, in spite of his irritation; Roulé hadn't seen such unique eyes before and equal parts intrigue and discomfort rolled in his stomach.  Eyes were not supposed to look like that.  
         "Would you like to accompany me for an evening meal Mr. Roulé?" Crydamoure offered, that familiar smirk curving his delicate lips as he lifted his exquisite fingers out.  He held the smile even after Roulé sighed heavily, it only faltered when the taller man turned his eyes from him.  
         "I believe we have separate roads this evening Mr...  Cri d'Amour." Roulé broached in a gentle voice.  He contained his urge to snigger as the man's face faltered to confusion.  The humor was short-lived to him, however, as his sight caught tiny pricks if moisture at the corner of his counterpart's eyes.  Repulsion contorted his expression and clenched his gut.  
         " _Monsieur..._  I could really make it worth your while." The tears, just two, dripped down his cheeks…  Roulé swore the little tears were heart-shaped.  
         “I never would’ve thought you _desperate_ , Crydamoure.”  Roulé sniggered, brushing past him, he was done here.  
         “Wait!”  Crydamoure quickly pursued him going to walk at his elbow, “Desperate?  What makes you say that?”  
         “Crying just because I rejected you?”  Roulé exhaled sharply, his lips curved in a condescending smirk.  “What kind of behavior is that?”  
         The other man was silent as they left the casino to the hot, night air.  The silence didn’t last for long, however, as Crydamoure’s next question became, “What about that earlier nonsense of wanting to hear me scream your name, Mr. Roulé?”  
         “What makes you so intent upon me this evening?” Roulé raised an eyebrow, “Surely there are many others back there with gratuitous wealth whom you would have better luck with.”  
         “You’re different.” Crydamoure presented, noticing with just a little curiosity the way Roulé stood perfectly still at his admission.  He watched him look to the sidewalk, his brows knitted together and his mouth dropped open so slightly before closing again into its previous stern line.  
         “Different in what way?”  
         Crydamoure shrugged, “You just are, it’s not something that would be easily explained here…  All the same,” he smiled, it was a real one as Roulé’s shoulders relaxed and he gave him a pair of tired eyes.  He hadn’t been lying earlier, his eyes-- _he_ was gorgeous in the over-worked businessman kind of way…  Or just in any kind of way, yes, he was so…  Fundamentally unlike any of the others back inside, he was like him.  “if you don’t wish to spend your evening with me, Mr. Roulé, I’ll understand.”  
         “You’re too kind.” Roulé muttered, his mind elsewhere.  
         “Lucky you.”  
         “I’m always lucky.”  
         Crydamoure’s face drooped and Roulé almost felt bad for it, “Well, take care.” he wiggled his fingers at his taller counterpart and spun on his expensive heels to stalk back into the casino.   _That guy…_  He thought, _Maybe I’m just off my game tonight?_  Though, he reminded himself as he weaved in and out of the droves of people, that it wasn’t really the first night Roulé had resisted him.  He logged the information away to examine later, he was on a job hunt and couldn’t be distracted.  
         His expression flat, his eyes fluttered around the room, casing the tables with highest payouts.  With a hum, he put on his winningest smile and sidled up to a fine-looking john at a craps table.  Unlike with Roulé, it didn’t take much to garner the man’s attention.  They grinned at each other, he flirted, they looked into each other’s eyes and the john was sold.  
         He heard the man running the table sigh heavily and gave him a glance out of the corner of his eye.  As usual, the worker immediately averted his gaze to the table, this casino was an old haunt of Crydamoure’s everyone knew the best ways to deal with him.  Not that Crydamoure ever really created any trouble for the workers themselves, if anything, he was quite helpful as he distracted his would-be clients.  For a month or two, he had even been hired through some less than scrupulous means to distract the high-rollers and even convince them to bet outrageous amounts on games they were sure to lose.  Needless to say, there were reasons he didn’t remain employed like that for long--it frankly disgusted him.  
         Turning his attention back to the john leaning against the table, he caught him in his enrapturing blue gaze again.  He propositioned him, a deep flush coming to his cheeks “Do you have a room here?  Or I should we go to mine?”  His fine, pink tongue licked out over his lips; he saw the man shiver, his thoughts obvious on his face.  
         “M-My wife is in my room…” the man shifted uncomfortably, his hand anxiously fidgeting on his thigh.  When Crydamoure giggled, he winced, feeling a twitch inside his dark pants.  His fidgeting became worse as he continued to resist the urge to adjust himself.  
         “If you’re sure…”  Crydamoure didn’t exactly take any amount of joy in being a homewrecker…  Averting his gaze, he sighed “I must admit…  300 for--”  
         “I’m sure.” he answered before Crydamoure could give him a quote.  
          _You’re one of those people that never reads the fine print, aren’t you?_  There was no helping jerks, he gave him a chance.  Silently though, he hoped his wife noticed the missing money and would get the fuck out, but that was none of his business.  “My room it is, _Chéri_.”  
         “Italian is so sexy.” the john smiled at him.  
          _Oh, my fucking god._

*****

         “Ah!  Oh!  Yes!  Yes, like that!   _Ooooh_!”  Sweat caking his hair to his forehead, Crydamoure squealed, his nails raking down the back of his client, “Oh, my-- _oh my, god_!”   _Just finish up already…  Eh, but…_  “Keep going!” he moaned.  
         “I-I only paid you enough for an hour though.” the man panted, his hands reverently caressing the other’s body.  
         “Please?” Crydamoure _begged_.  
         “My wife will start to wonder…”  
          _You already fucked up, don’t try to pull that card._  Little tears began filling up the corners of his eyes,  “I’m having _such_ a good time."  
         “Well…”  
         The tears broke from Crydamoure’s eyes and streamed down his cheeks, the john being drawn to wipe them away with his hand.  In an instant, his face bloomed into a broad, dazed smile.  
          _Gotcha._  He pressed his head back in a high, breathy moan as the man put his hand around his dick,  “Oh, how  about just 200 for the next hour instead of three?”  
         “Sure!”

  
         Once all was said and done after a grueling three hours, Crydamoure saw his client out with a gracious smile, knowing the man smelled heavily of sex and his cologne.  It was his fault, however, he didn’t ask for a shower or anything, he couldn’t be held responsible for the choices of people who just were, well, irresponsible.  Making sure the hotel room’s door closed with a “click” he stretched in his fluffy, pink robe and went to his end table to collect his earnings.  
          _No tip, as usual._  He internally griped, but hey, 800 dollars was 800 dollars.  He considered returning back to the casino to take another client, it always became easier to find takers if he had just had sex, but he didn’t feel up to it that night.  It _usually_ , was easier…   _That guy…_  It hadn’t seemed to affect Roulé at all that first night they spoke…  
         Shrugging, Crydamoure wandered to the sliding glass door of his room and slid it open.  The strip was so gorgeous at night and no matter how long it had been since he had moved to Vegas he would never tire of its beauty.  He slipped a cigarette between his lips and lit it, standing in the threshold, he contemplated what he wanted to do as it was still relatively early in the night.  
          _Remember when you used to sleep at one AM?_  He internally reflected with a giggle, letting his smoke float away on the winds of the city.  Flicking the spent butt to the ground of his veranda, he sauntered over to the phone and dialed room service.  “Good evening,” Crydamoure began when a woman’s voice answered, “yes, it’s me.” he giggled, “I’m hungry.” a grin at the phone,  “An order of steak and eggs, three pancakes, yes syrup, you know me and syrup,” a light-hearted chuckle, “and I’ll take some coffee, strongest you have.  Oh, and if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, a club sandwich, heavy on everything and add a fried egg.  Yes, my room.  Thank you so much.”  He hung up the phone and moved to make himself a little more presentable to the hotel staff, putting his hair up and at least pulling some underwear on beneath the robe.  They wouldn’t be able to see it, but it was the thought that counted.  
         It didn’t take long for his food to arrive and, as it appeared to now be a running joke with hotel staff, they had sent a man Crydamoure guessed couldn’t have been working there for more than a week.  The poor thing had ostensibly not been warned either and Crydamoure had to choose whether or not to make the boy’s first encounter with him a memorable one…  Not that it wouldn’t already be, but, _more_ memorable.  
         “Good evening.” Crydamoure giggled as their eyes met.  
         “G-G-Good ev-eve…  Room service!” the boy stuttered a few times, an awkward grin on his features as he motioned to push the cart of food into Crydamoure’s room.  Stepping into the cloud of lust that generally enveloped Crydamoure, he let out another series of stutters, nearly panicking as he looked for a place to sit all the food.  
         The older man raised his hand to his lips to hide his smile as he stepped from the way, “Thank you so much.  There’s no need to be nervous.”  
         “Nerv-Nervous?  Why would I be nervous?” the boy awkwardly chuckled, trying to turn his back to Crydamoure to lay out his food on the fine, glass dining table.  As it turned out, he had indeed been warned, but it was likely the jokesters downstairs had probably fed him some falsehood about him tipping with blowjobs.  
         The older man rolled his eyes and moved to fetch his wallet, unintentionally brushing against him. He heard the yelp and saw him jump up straight from the corner of his eye and a chuckled a little, “Did I surprise you?”  
         “Uh, a little…” the boys eyes fell on Crydamoure’s fingers as he sifted through his wallet.  The slender, elegant digits deftly plucked out three notes and the boy swallowed.  “Is-is there anything else I can get for you?” the bellhop’s face was turning incredibly red, and by the tenting of his pants, Crydamoure felt almost sorry for him.  
         Crydamoure was aware of him inching away as he strode slowly back over to examine the contents of the table.  Everything he had asked for was there as well as a cup of cream and sugar to add to his coffee if he desired.  With a nod he answered, “Everything is fine.”  Not thinking about it, Crydamoure raised a finger to his lips and nibbled on it for a moment, sure that he was forgetting something…  He lipped at his finger for a bit longer and in the end supposed that if he had forgotten about it, it wasn’t really important to begin with.  Clicking his tongue, he moved his eyes back over to his service man, catching him rather openly gawking.  
         “Perhaps you should bring a camera with you next time.” he commented, the boy averting his eyes quickly with more stutters.  It was all well and good pretty much being an incarnation of sex until others sexualized nearly every single thing you did.  
         “I-I’m sorry, sir…”  As the bellhop moved to leave, Crydamoure extended his hand, catching his attention. “Oh, thank you!”  He took the roll of cash the man offered with a grin.  
         “Twenty is for Xavier, the rest is yours.”  
         “Xavier?” the bellhop questioned.  
         “The chef.” Crydamoure explained as if it should be obvious, “Trust me, I’ll hear about it if that doesn’t get to him.”  He frowned seriously, sending a bolt of terror through the new employee.  “Now have a good night.”  The hostility melted away in a second and the short man adjourned to his table to eat.  
         “Y-Yessir!”  and the boy scurried off with his cart, definitely not too keen on upsetting a man who had such a drastic affect on him…  Also, gave him a forty-dollar tip.  
         After hearing his door close again, Crydamoure picked up his knife and fork and dug ravenously into his food.  The sandwich was gone in no time flat and his eggs were practically inhaled in one go.  The steak, cooked to medium rare as Xavier always remembered to do, filled the plate with its succulent juices as he cut into it and the pancakes…  Oh, the pancakes, Crydamoure found himself sucking drops of syrup from his fingers.  Unfortunately, his bliss was interrupted by a phone call at two AM.  
         Standing, he went to his end table and plucked up the red cellphone, “Good evening, this is Crydamoure speaking, how might I be of service to you?” he answered in a breathy voice.  “Hm…  Yes, it’s wonderful to hear back from you.” He went to resume his spot as a repeat client he only knew as “Steven” began speaking.  “Two hours sound good? …  Oh, the whole night?”  Stabbing his fork back into his steak he lifted it to his mouth and chewed as he thought.  “No, nothing scheduled until tomorrow. …  You want me to wear that?  You know that comes with an extra charge.”  He was going to have to stop by his apartment then.  “I’d like to suggest me coming to you.  I’m pretty far up the strip tonight. …  I’ll do it free of charge this evening since you offered first.  …  A quote?”  Crydamoure thought for a few moments, while he got a tremendous discount at the hotel, he had still already paid for it and wasn’t going to be back for the rest of the night…  “3000 for the rest of the evening.  …  No, that is not gratuity included.”  He nodded and tried to finish his food while still on the phone, “Yes, I have.  No, I won’t shower. …  Lovely, I’ll be by at around three.”  Hanging up the phone he groaned a little and wolfed down his food, mapping out the quickest route to his apartment and to the man’s home in his head.  Stacking all the empty plates on the table, he rushed for his clothes and shoved everything necessary back into his pockets.  
          _Just come back in the morning to check out._  He resolved, leaving his room for his next job with a huff.


End file.
